Lux Mundi
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [DMRW and MFPW SLASH] Draco Malfoy's happy with life. But then a supposedly dead Weasley appears- now he has to deal with a pissy Harry Potter, falling in love with a redhead who can't remember him, a Dark Lord conspiracy, and a lack of coffee.


_Lux Mundi_

By Kay 

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, but things would be much easier if I did. 

Author's Notes: Eventual Draco/Ron slash and Marcus/Percy slash, which means homosexuality abounds for those of you who don't know. It will be very slow, but it will eventually come. Not sure how long it'll last… o.o;; 

Please, just stick with me until after the first two chapters-- it actually gets good then, and starts making more sense. Sorry. ^^;; And it'll be kinda OOC, I'm sure. Well, very OOC, actually. And confusing for a little bit. And this chapter sounds a lot like a horribly cheesy suspense thriller or something, and it has too many surprises, but I'll slow down here soon and sort it all out for everyone. 

This story takes place about three years after Harry and the gang graduate from Hogwarts. There are spoilers for the 5th book later on, but the rest of it was my own version of what will happen. You'll find out later, but to be short: Voldemort's dead, Death Eaters are still running around like scared rabbits, and Draco's only sort of moved to the good side. He's actually rather mean. Meh. Marcus is cute, despite his awkward social skills. Hee hee. 

_lux mundi_ - Latin - the light of the world 

~~~~~ 

_Prologue: "In which Mr. Flint makes a house call and revelations ensue…"_

~~~~~ 

    It was raining as Marcus Flint knocked on the door to 17th Caveat Mansion, cursing under his breath and looking towards the gray skies. 

    It wasn't really so much a _door_, of course, considering the massive size of the oaken slabs in front of him. Each doorway was decorated in ornate golden swirls and an impressively large, old-fashioned doorknocker that was shaped like a cobra's head. (Usually they snarled and hissed at him, but autumn was almost over, and they often nodded off into early hibernation in the cold season.) It was a bit annoying, actually. He'd already banged the knocker at least three times, but no one had answered, leaving him out in a downpour of rain that was steadily worsening. What had started out earlier in the day as mildly threatening gray clouds had turned into a torrent of water soaking him to the bone. And him, standing like an idiot, out in the freezing atmosphere. 

    It was rude. He was wet. It was three o'clock in the morning on a Saturday that would soon be Sunday, and Marcus Flint was seriously getting pissed off. 

    He slammed the knocker down once more, getting a sleepy hiss of anger from the cobra head. Jerking his hand back before golden fangs could sink into it, he scowled at the huge pair of doors. The rain plastered down his short hair, now a flat streak of brown over his forehead. 

    _"Zabini!_ Let me in, you great stupid bastard, before I start throwing hexes at your ugly, precious wife-" 

    The door opened abruptly. 

    "I would appreciate," Pansy Zabini snarled lowly, a dark and furious look in her eyes, "if you wouldn't resort to such tactics, Marcus. You of all people should know better than to cause me insult." 

    Marcus smirked. Shoving a hand on the doorframe so she couldn't close it, he leaned in close to his old schoolmate. "And you, of all people, should know better than to leave me standing outside like some commoner, Pansy." 

    She narrowed her eyes. 

    "Besides, it was your darling husband that asked for me," he continued, stepping further into the mansion. Pansy backed up, distaste replacing her suspicion as she saw the puddles of rainwater leaking from his boots all over the originally pristine floor. She had an elegant silk robe over what was most likely her nightdress. He snorted softly, already looking past her. "Where is he? Usually some servant or maid would answer the door and take me to him." 

    Pansy's lips tightened to a bloodless line. Transforming slightly from the angry woman into the cold, reserved wife she was supposed to be, she shook her head. "Blaise sent everyone to bed already. He does not desire witnesses for your little… chat." 

    "That explains the hour," Marcus muttered sourly, glancing around the hall. The Caveat Mansion was eerie in the night, endless stone walls stretching out around them with only sparse dim torches set into the granite. It was a beautiful home- created from the best marble from Italy, according to Blaise, who would always tell everyone about everything he'd done to restore his family house- and the halls were decorated in his family crest and tapestries. Marcus had been there many times before, but rarely so late, and the effect of seeing the vast entrance hall empty was slightly disturbing. 

    "It looks very different at night," Pansy commented off-hand, obviously noticing his discomfort. "Blaise is waiting for you upstairs in the study. Do try not to ruin any more of the carpet," she added scornfully, glaring at his wet boots. "I rather like the design and it's very expensive." 

    "Just get the house elves to clean it up," Marcus dismissed carelessly, already heading for the large stairway in the middle of the entrance hall. "Go back to bed, Parkinson." 

    "It's _Zabini_ now," she snapped at his back. He almost smiled to himself- some things never changed in the world, most undoubtedly was Pansy Zabini's readiness to be irritated. It was nice to know he still had some _control_ in the world. Even if it was over some woman he barely got along with. 

    He climbed the stairs, taking extra satisfaction in curling his toes and squelching water all over the beautiful crimson carpet. After that, it wasn't long to find Blaise Zabini. He had been through the hallways more times than he could count, though never with so many shadows and so few people. Even the portraits were asleep in their frames; it seemed like a lonelier walk than ever to the study. 

    He was surprised to feel relief when he reached the door. He entered without knocking. 

    The study was what Blaise referred to as _'his den.'_ Marcus never bothered asking why he liked the room so much, especially since Blaise had always hated studying with a passion, and book shelves lined the entire room from wall to wall. The windows were barred shut with magical charms, the fireplace softly glowing with flickering flames- he could feel the warmth envelope him as soon as he entered, although it was most likely the effect of a spell and not the actual hearth. Over the mantel was a stuffed head-trophy of a creature that resembled a griffin (but Marcus fervently believed it was just a mutated hippogriff, and Blaise's father had been pulling his leg). 

    Blaise himself sat by the fire, idly lounging in a red-plush Victorian armchair. The flames danced over his short blonde locks, sending shadows into his face and over his dark robes. As Marcus closed the door behind him, those blue eyes flickered and glanced over. 

    "Took you long enough." 

    Marcus narrowed his eyes. "Well, it's easier to visit when someone actually answers the door." 

    Blaise cracked a grim smile and gestured towards the chair across from him. "Fair enough. Sit down, won't you? We have many things to discuss tonight. Many, many things." 

    There was a solemn determination in his voice that Marcus had frankly never heard before. The older Slytherin hesitated, feeling his breath catch in his throat as he turned the implications over in his head. Then, without a pause, he sunk down into the offered chair, jerking off his wet trench coat and throwing it over a small side table. Once he was seated and could see directly into Blaise's darkened gaze, he could see exactly what this little "chat" was going to entail. 

    "You've found Voldemort." 

    Blaise's eyebrow arched. "It appears I don't have to tell you anything. I wasn't aware that was ever implied." 

    "No, but you called me here in the early hours of the morning, during a rainstorm, and looking more serious than I've ever seen you. Don't tell me we're actually going to talk about crumpets, Zabini." 

    A tiny corner of the blonde's mouth quirked up. "No, you're right. Or at least semi-right. It has to do with Voldemort." 

    _'Doesn't everything?'_ Marcus wondered tiredly, slumping back in his seat. Aloud, making sure to add the proper note of derision to his tone, he drawled, "Well, get on with it- what's this all about? Where's our Lord currently staying?" 

    Blaise calmly picked up a crystal goblet sitting on the side table next to him, gazing at the rich crimson liquid inside. "Our Lord is currently having a humble stay in the lower extensions of my abode." 

    Marcus's heart stopped. 

    Without pausing to think about it, his hand grasped at his chest. When it began working again, and he could feel with shaky certainty that blood was pumping through his veins once more, he asked, "Here? Voldemort's _here?"_

    Blaise sipped the red wine, watching Marcus knowingly over the glass rim. "Yes. In the lowest dungeon I own. Deep beneath this very room, a presence under our very feet. Does that… _frighten_ you? Marcus?" 

    The former Slytherin forced a smug smile, trying to persuade his lips to arch into a smirk instead of trembling from shock like they had been. He crossed his legs, taking his time in answering so as not to give away anything. Finally, raising an eyebrow, he murmured, "Not so much… how interesting. The Dark Lord? You have gained a very esteemed guest, indeed." 

    "Oh yes. It was quite the surprise, I assure you." The blonde leaned forward seriously. "What I am about to tell you must not leave this room, Marcus. You cannot tell anyone. None of the Inner Circle; none of our old schoolmates. No one can be trusted." 

    "Not even Pansy?" 

    Blaise's eyes darkened from blue to black. "Not even Pansy." 

    Marcus let his grin slip. He bent his head forward solemnly, eyes intent on the man before him. "Why involve _me_ in this, then?" 

    "I have my reasons," the blonde said dryly. "I know almost everyone in the Inner Circle very personally, you know. The one who can help me with this task is you, and you only. The others… they wouldn't understand." 

    Marcus didn't understand, but he wasn't about to say that. Instead, he gave a supposedly understanding nod. "What do you need me to do?" 

    "You swear not to tell any of your companions among us?" 

    "You have my _word."_

    Blaise nodded seriously. It had always been known to the pureblood families that a Flint's word is the highest unbreakable oath. They had never turned out scholars or intellects, usually turning to stocky men and crafty women who had good common sense, but no cunning whatsoever. There was something to be said in their loyalty, however, which was an unknown secret to anyone who didn't know the family lineage well. The Flint word was as good as gold; not even the vow Voldemort made his followers perform could compare to Marcus Flint's word. 

    "Very well. It's true that Voldemort lies in my dungeons. He arrived late last night, by use of a Portkey that led straight into my library." 

    Marcus nodded slowly. "He was alone? What about the sniveling worm? Pettigrew?" 

    "Gone. He was alone, but for one, though not the worm. And wounded." 

    He couldn't help it; he glanced up sharply. "The Dark Lord is ailing?" 

    Blaise shook his head, taking another sip of the red wine. Almost absently, he placed the glass aside and leaned forward, resting his pale chin on his hands. He smiled almost ruefully at Marcus. "Would you like a drink?" 

    "… right now?" 

    "Yes." 

    "Alright," Marcus said, mostly because it was a bad idea to refuse anything from a Zabini, and partly because he was actually pretty thirsty. It had been a damn long night. 

    Blaise smiled simply as he took out another wine goblet from a tiny cabinet in the side table, clinking the glass as he poured a small amount of drink in it. He passed it over to Marcus, who immediately took a small gulp and found it good, if not a little sour. Over it, he asked again, "So the Dark Lord is hurt?" 

    "No. The Dark Lord is dead." 

    Marcus dropped the wine glass. 

    It shattered; the glittering pieces fell through the air and over the carpet, dangerously nestling in the fabric there, but Marcus took no notice. And why should he? The entire world had just been turned upside down. Everything had just changed. Everything, from the way he breathed, to the smile on Blaise's face, to the taste of the wine still lingering on his lips- 

    "Dead?" he demanded hoarsely, eyes wide. 

    "Dead," the man agreed. He leaned forward, bringing forth his wand and murmuring a spell to the floor. The shards of glass flew up in the air and rejoined, flashing slightly before revealing a whole goblet without a single crack in its structure. He reached out and took it, smiling slightly at Marcus' terrified shock. "If you don't believe me, you're welcome to see him." 

    "How? When? _ Who?"_

    "Ah, very valid questions." Blaise sobered. "Unfortunately, I can only answer the last one. At least, I believe I can. When Voldemort ported to the library, he arrived in terrible condition. You know that he was still weak from his last battle with Potter; even though it was in our seventh year, it left a mark on him that saps his energy. Though I know Potter didn't get off any better." 

    "I know this already," Marcus interrupted flatly. "What's the fucking point?" 

    "No need to be vulgar," he pouted. "The _point_ is that our late Lord has been sulking in the bushes, so to speak, for three years. _Three_ years, Marcus. Doesn't that seem odd to you? Why would Voldemort, the most powerful of us all, lack so much energy that he couldn't even make more than one appearance a month?" Blaise leaned forward eagerly, his blue eyes darkening with shadows even as his face was illuminated eerily by the firelight. "We have been victorious in many things! Some of us have been apprehended. Others lost. But the legacy of the Death Eater remains strong. So _why_? Why should our great and powerful leader hide for so long? We did we take orders from his simpering worm, Peter Pettigrew, a coward if anyone ever knew him?" 

    Marcus hesitated, and as a last resort, fell back on his teachings. "Because the Lord cannot always please his followers- they are weak, he is strong. Our devotion should not falter even in his absence. He is far above us-" 

    "No, Marcus, my dear friend. He is now far, far below us." The blonde smirked. "Dead. Rotting. Sapped of his last strengths because for years, as he hid amongst the dark places of the world, he was using all of his magic for one single purpose." 

    "What's that?" 

    Blaise shrugged. "I have no idea. But whatever he was doing, it must have went wrong. When he ported, he was covered in slashes and horrific wounds. And for some reason, he couldn't breath, could only stare at the ceiling and claw at his throat until he died. It was… disturbing. No magic could reach him." 

    "You said he wasn't alone. That there was someone else, but not Pettigrew," Marcus said slowly. 

    "Yes. The one who did that to our Lord. His magic was all over Voldemort's body afterwards; wild magic, too, nothing like wand work. I still can't make out exactly what happened," the Slytherin admitted. He slumped back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "He's locked up right now in one of the rooms. Completely harmless, as far as I could tell. Didn't say a word. Not even a whimper. It's like he's just… not _there_ anymore, nothing but a shell." 

    "Do you know who he is?" Marcus asked quietly, watching the man intently. "Is it someone we know?" 

    "… I think so," Blaise whispered uncertainly, showing the first sign of fear in the entire evening. "He seems so familiar, but so different. I was hoping you'd recognize which one he was." 

    "Which one?" 

    "I was hoping you'd take him somewhere for me," Blaise said, ignoring the confused inquiry. "To the Ministry. To the Aurors." 

    "The what?" If Marcus had been holding a wineglass, he surely would have smashed that one, too. He gaped at the blonde. "You want me to take this- strange guy- straight into the enemy's hands?! Are you a goddamn _idiot?!"_

    "We do not want him in our midst," the blonde replied grimly, his voice heavy with trepidation and warning. "Besides, it's all part of the plan." 

    "What plan?" 

    "The one that I asked you to hear tonight," Blaise answered darkly. "The one I've already begun to put to action. If it goes correctly, all will come to fruit in time. We can't let the others know that the Lord is dead. There will be a riot for leadership and dominance, and that's not even the worst case scenario. The order of the Death Eater has been failing for a long time, Marcus. You know it. I know it." 

    He said nothing in reply to it. 

    "Times grow different. This is the beginning of a new era, one which the pureblood families may not see in good light. Though I remain with my original desire to cleanse the world of Muggle-borns and mixes, things have changed. We must choose our steps more wisely. This plan ensures a satisfactory ending for our side that will not compromise our security in the wizarding world. Do you understand?" 

    "No," Marcus finally said. "But I gave my word. I'll help you with this… plan of yours. What do you need?" 

    Blaise stood. "Take the man to the Ministry. Just leave him outside the door if you need to- it doesn't matter, so long as he ends up in the hands of an Auror. Then I want you to keep an ear out for news on Pettigrew. Anything about his whereabouts or state of health; any detail could be vital." 

    "I understand," Marcus said, standing as well. He glanced towards the window, noting the still-falling rain with a distant weariness. "You'll contact me for further orders, I assume?" 

    "Yes." The blonde Slytherin studied him momentarily. "And remember, not a word to our companions, Marcus. Secrecy is vital to the survival of the Plan." 

    He regarded him seriously. "You play a dangerous game… keeping secrets from the Inner Circle." 

    "Yes. And you play the same one, as well." Blaise's smile grew to a cold, reptilian expression. "My traitorous spy." 

    For the second time that evening, Marcus Flint's blood ran cold. 

    "Oh, don't get all worked up," Blaise continued, waving his hand airily as though it were no matter. He walked to the door, resting a hand on the knob. "I've known for almost a year now. The fact that you work with Gryffindors on a daily basis is almost horrifying, but I have my reasons to keep you alive. In fact, it's that turncoat personality of yours that I'm counting on." 

    "I don't understand," Marcus said weakly, fear making his breath drown out the words until he couldn't hear them. "You aren't…?" 

    "Going to kill you? No. Not yet. Not while I still need you. And I _do_ need you, Marcus." Blaise regarded him sadly. "It's a pity that I tread such a fine line with you; perhaps a pleasure, though, as well. Your secret is safe with me. I am no Lord Voldemort. And you're… you're my friend," he added softly, showing a hint of the schoolboy he had once been, through the quiet love and trust in his blue eyes. It was a sight rarely seen, and Marcus nodded with a thick lump in his throat. 

    "I wouldn't… I wouldn't betray you, Blaise," he struggled to say. It was bitter, and truthful, and perhaps harder to explain properly than improperly. "I wouldn't betray _them_, either, but I wouldn't wish you harm. I just couldn't let Voldemort get away with it. None of it. He was a-a cold blooded bastard, worse than… I-" 

    "I know," Blaise interrupted gently, holding up a hand. "I understand. Maybe I would've done the same thing, if I was a little more brave. But I guess I'm not. I trust you still, Marcus Flint, to keep your word to me. You may tell your contacts with the Gryffindors what you've learned tonight." 

    "But you said-" 

    "I _said_ not to tell the Inner Circle or any Death Eater," Blaise said teasingly. "Perhaps you should listen to your promises better, Marcus. Anyway, as long as it doesn't make it back to _them_, everything will go according to plan. It doesn't matter which side you're on in the end; everything will turn out the same." 

    "Will it turn out… badly?" 

    Blaise shrugs. "Well, honestly, I don't know. But wouldn't it be wonderful, Marcus? If it didn't at all?" 

    Marcus considered that. And then he shrugged. "Wouldn't be bloody bad at all, I'd guess." 

    "Yes. Now, if you'll follow me…?" he motioned to the door, following Marcus after he exited. They walked for a while, down the corridors and past the guestrooms until they reached the farthest room in the hallway. Quickly gesturing for Marcus to stand behind him, Blaise produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the door slowly. 

    "Be very still at first, he's easily startled," the blonde murmured, pushing open the door. He called out softly as he did so. "Boy? It's Blaise Zabini… with a friend. Don't be alarmed. We're here to help you, remember?" 

    No answer. 

    Blaise stepped inside, Marcus following, and when he looked up and saw the figure seated by the window, his breath caught. 

    "Blaise," he croaked. 

    "Do you know which one he is?" 

    The figure curled up by the window blinked at them slowly, a confused smile hesitantly flickering over his features. The skinny limbs moved, shifted, and he stood awkwardly on his feet, reaching out with a dangerously slender hand. His breathing was thin and reedy, eyes eager and pleased. 

    He pointed to the window and the smattering of water upon the glass, beaming as though it was the best thing in the world. 

    "Yes, it's raining. Very good," the blonde praised cautiously, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. He glanced over at Marco anxiously. "Very good, child…" 

    Marcus stared. He stared, feeling some desperate pit of horror opening in his stomach, and he slumped into the nearest chair, never taking his eyes off of the figure that slowly walked towards them. His lips moved with no sound. His hands clutched the wooden chair arms so tightly that the knuckles turned a vicious, bloodless white. 

    _"Which one is it, Marcus?"_

    Marcus wet his lips. Did it again. 

    "Ron. It's Ronald Weasley." 

    Everything had suddenly become a whole lot more complicated. 

***** 

End of Part One. Yes, I know lots of confusing and odd things happened. It doesn't make sense yet. Don't worry, in a few chapters, I hope to clear up most of the history and who's-who now. More surprises and things will be cleared up in the next chapter, I promise. Well, hopefully. I was a little irritated with the this prologue, mostly because I gave so much information so fast... I'm usually the type that draws these sort of things out... I dunno... 

^^;; I just hope no one gets confused. Next chapter, Marcus will clear some things up and whine about how mysterious Blaise is and how confused _he_ is... heh. 

Next Chapter: Marcus takes Ron to the Ministry. Harry, Draco, and Percy make appearances. Confusion ensues. Draco's a fecking twisted man sometimes. ^__^ Happiness. 

Please review? *blushes and hides face* It'd be really, really appreciated. 

~~~~~ 


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